


Imperative

by CombetaireTrash



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Morning After, combeferre is not a morning person, combeferre is tall, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:49:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CombetaireTrash/pseuds/CombetaireTrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire wakes up in someone else's room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperative

This isn’t the first time that he has woken up in a strange bed—it’s just the first time that it isn’t a stranger’s bed.

Grantaire stands in the bathroom—a familiar bathroom, like the bedroom that he’s seen once before, when he came over once to borrow a book and left after a short conversation. The bathroom he knows better, from spending time at this apartment with Courfeyrac watching soap operas instead of going to class. Enough time that he knows where Courf keeps the toothpaste, so he steals one and a toothbrush from the spares Courf keeps for when his friends stay over.

He'd never actually hung out alone with Combeferre before last night, when everyone else had gone home and they continued arguing--discussing, he supposes, because he only really argues with Enjolras, and wasn't it refreshing that his views were being taken seriously?--about assisted suicide. And then he realized that they were sitting alone at the table, turned toward each other and faces close. And Grantaire remembers Combeferre's serious face, the way his mouth looked when he was thinking about the argument he was constructing as Grantaire made his points, the fact that he waited until Grantaire was finished to start refuting his words.

He remembers thinking that he was screwed and holding out his hand, saying that he would gallantly walk him home. They talked about class on the way there, and halfway through Grantaire remembers pulling on Combeferre's shoulder until he stopped and turned toward him--the streetlight reflected on his glasses and his smile was more open than Grantaire thinks he's ever seen it before.

“Holy shit,” he says, staring at the blue streak of paste on the bristles. This situation does not seem real to him. It can’t be. But he’s too hungover for it to be anything but, and he remembers everything from the night before—including the part where he was the one who initiated everything. Showed his hand. Kissed Combeferre in the street and followed him home. “Fuck.” That feels better, honestly.

He woke up slightly before Combeferre, but had to wake the other man so that he could use the bathroom. Grantaire swallows, feeling the ghost of Combeferre’s arm around his waist like it was still there. Combeferre looked at him, eyes bleary and then opening wide. He had muttered something about coffee, thrown the pair of jeans Grantaire had been wearing yesterday on without even looking for his own—to be fair, Grantaire couldn’t see where they had gotten to—and stumbled from the door. Grantaire knew that he wouldn’t be able to talk to Combeferre before he’d had at least half a cup of coffee, and snatched up his boxers and the t-shirt he had been wearing yesterday from the floor before heading into the bathroom, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t run into Courfeyrac.

He spits out the mouthful of toothpaste and rinses, takes a moment to splash his face with water before he goes back to Combeferre’s room as quietly as he can. He thinks he hears voices in the kitchen, but ducks inside before he hears anything they’re saying.

Grantaire sits on the edge of the bed, pulling strings on the comforter. He only has to wait a few more minutes before Combeferre reenters the room, holding two mugs of coffee. He shuts the door behind him with his foot, carefully balancing the massive mugs in his hands. The man looks ridiculous—shirtless, and Grantaire’s jeans hanging off his hips and five inches too short. He still doesn’t appear to have noticed.

The room is tiny, and with Combeferre’s height it only takes him a step and a half to hand Grantaire the coffee with milk, and another to sit down in the desk chair to Grantaire’s left. Grantaire doesn’t turn to face him, instead cradling his coffee in his hands, letting the warmth give him something to focus on and breathing in the rising steam as though the caffeine would travel through the air and into his bloodstream.

“So,” Grantaire says. He doesn’t go on—he doesn’t know what else to say and he does not want to hear Combeferre's rejection, doesn't want to hear the words about friendship sure to come next.

But instead he hears Combeferre takes a deep sip from his coffee, as if stalling for time. It appears that he’s just as awkward about this as Grantaire, which is disconcerting but oddly reassuring. “So.”

Grantaire takes a deep breath, turning his body so that his legs hang off the side of the bed nearest Combeferre, but keeping his eyes turned down toward his coffee. “What happened last night was—“

“Not a mistake,” Combeferre finishes smoothly, as though the words were effortless. But when Grantaire jerks his head up to look him in the eye for the first time since waking up, a deep blush is spreading up his neck and across his cheeks. Grantaire stares—he has never seen the man blush before.

“It wasn’t?” he asks. The words are meant to come out casually, but they taste like hope and he is choking on it.

Combeferre shakes his head, and it is he who can no longer meet Grantaire’s eyes now. He taps his fingers nervously against the ceramic of the mug. “If you would—would rather consider—“ He breaks off, swallows, and starts over. “Whatever you think, I just wanted you to know that I don’t think that it’s a mistake.” He sighs. “Unless—unless you were hurt by my actions last night, I see no reason for regret.”

Grantaire, again, finds himself at a loss for words, so heavily does the relief hit him. He swallows another sip of coffee, barely flinching at the heat, with the hope that it would give him the same courage that the whiskey had last night and stands. He has to take two steps to cross to stand over Combeferre. Sitting, he is shorter than Grantaire, and is staring up at him with wide dark eyes and a small smile, as if he can’t believe what’s happening.

Grantaire kisses him. It is an action born both of a decision and an impulse. He had planned the course of action, but the expression on Combeferre’s face made kissing him an imperative. Grantaire would do anything for that smile, for the look in Combeferre’s eyes that told Grantaire that he wanted him. Or, perhaps, Grantaire thought as Combeferre’s tongue swiped against his bottom lip and his fingers curled into his hair, he would do anything for another kiss like this one: soft and sweet, with a promise for the future that was not there the night before. Last night’s kisses had originated in the desperation born from alcohol and uncertainty and were not gentle at all. Combeferre must forget that he is holding a mug of coffee, though, for as he pushes closer the mug presses against Grantaire’s chest—and a threadbare t-shirt is no protection.

Grantaire flinches back and Combeferre curses, a single word which makes Grantaire smile.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, with a sincerity that can only be achieved by Combeferre, and sets his coffee down carefully on the desk next to him. He turns back with a glint in his eye and a grin on his face. “Where were we?”

Grantaire lets himself be pulled down for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this today as a way of getting back into the game. Let me know if there are any problems with the writing or let me know what you liked!


End file.
